


The Past Tense (And The Not-So Perfect Future)

by MrsBlue8



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bad Decisions, F/M, Friendship, Infidelity, Inspired by a Movie, Love, M/M, Magic, Near Future, Real Madrid CF, Regret, Wishes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2017-02-16
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:42:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6823315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsBlue8/pseuds/MrsBlue8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It's amazing how a little of tomorrow can make up for a whole lot of yesterday."<br/>- John Guare, Landscape Of The Body.</p><p>Seveteen-year old Sergio Ramos is sad and unpopular; only an equally unpopular, freckled blonde wants to spend any time with him. When an inadvertent wish changes his future, Sergio is convinced he's got it all - an internationally renowned career, a beautiful girlfriend and a lavish lifestyle. </p><p>But nothing comes without a cost, and Sergio realises that he's no longer the person he thought he was. And neither is his best friend. Is the loss of the few things he once held dear a sacrifice he didn't intend to make? </p><p>(Heavily inspired by a guilty pleasure of mine: '13 Going On 30').</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Hola, Bonjour, Hello.
> 
> I was watching '13 Going On 30' back in January - one of my favourite childhood films - and thought 'you know what would make this EVEN better?' Sernando makes everything better. I'm hoping for some delicious action in the Champions League final. 
> 
> It's just designed to be some old-fashioned, shippy fun. A little more light-hearted than ATWBO, at least. I've had fun writing it so far. 
> 
> And yes, I know - Sernando again. If they stopped being so damn write-able then MAYBE, I could stop obsessing over them.
> 
> (Do not be fooled by the title; I know squat-all about grammar rules and the 'perfect future' tense. It just seemed clever at the time). XD
> 
> Enjooooooooooooooy, my fellow fandomers.

“Alright, Severo. Can you move a little to the left?”

Sergio adjusts himself on the cracked, leather bench and gives an uncomfortable cough. “It’s Sergio.”

The school-issued photographer appears oblivious to his correction and continues altering the position of the camera. Sergio tries to compose himself, tugging at the collar of his oversized shirt. It itches against his neck. His mother always forced him in to Rene’s hand-me-downs on school picture day.

The photographer – with his lumberjack shirt and ripped jeans – spends an unnecessary amount of time fiddling with the camera angle but eventually straightens up, satisfied.

“Alright, Severo.”

 _“Sergio.”_ He ignores the giggles from other students waiting in the queue.

“Alright. Smile for the camera, Severo.”

Sergio squashes down any further protests over his name and grins, revealing a mouth full of wire. It falters when he hears the giggles increase in volume. There is a sharp flash and then the photographer is waving Sergio off and calling up the next student.

He spends the rest of the afternoon sat up in the rafters that run alongside the school’s football pitch, glaring at the Polaroid in his hands. A face full of acne and braces and a too-big nose stare back at him. _This_ was the picture that would be in his and all of his classmates’ yearbook. _This_ was the picture that people would remember, would point out to their children with a snide ‘ _look, that’s Sergio Ramos. What a loser he was, with his stupid clothes and his stupid, Sevillan accent. Nothing special became of him._

With a sigh, he crumples up the picture and tosses it over his shoulder. He gazes out towards the pitch where the school’s football team are practising; all quick flicks and darting runs and elegant shots. Footballers were the epitome of _awesome_ in Sergio’s mind. They were suave and athletic, with incredible houses and dating incredible woman, travelling to all corners of the globe and being invited to the most elite, A-list parties. Footballers didn’t have to wash their face with spot cream every morning or get told that _one day,_ they’d grow in to their hair.

 _Yeah,_ Sergio thinks. _That’d be pretty amazing._

“Nice picture.”

A shadow creeps over Sergio and sits down in the rafters next to him, their long legs stretching out in front of them. Sergio turns to look at his freckled, best friend – who has Sergio’s creased, Polaroid in his hand. “Shut up.”

“No, seriously.” Fernando says, with a smile on his face. “It’s nice.”

Sergio just huffs.

Fernando laughs and drapes an arm around him. “What’s wrong, gitano?”

Sergio huffs again. “Don’t call me that. It’s stupid.”

“I like it.”

“Well, I don’t.” He says, and then sighs. “I’m sorry, Fer.” He wraps a loose arm around Fernando’s waist. “It’s just been a bad afternoon. Have you come to cheer me up?”

“Of course.” Fernando pulls out his school picture and hands it to Sergio. “And you thought your hair was bad. I ran out of dye last night – didn’t have a chance to touch up my roots. I look like Britney Spears when she had hair extensions.”

Sergio takes in his scruffy hair, droopy eyes and signature, Fernando-esque smile. He shrugs. “You look fine.”

“Sergio, you’re too sweet.”

Sergio nudges him with an elbow and hands the picture back. He stares out towards the pitch again, squinting against the sun that seemed to bathe the players in a biblical spotlight. “Do you ever think about your life in ten years’ time?”

Fernando stuffs the picture in his back-pocket. “Yeah, I suppose.”

Sergio turns to look at him. “What d’you think it’ll be like?”

“I don’t know. We’d share an apartment together right in the centre of Madrid, in the Sol District; order Chinese every Saturday night and watch old, re-runs of TV shows. And, I’d have a job in magazine publishing, maybe, and you’d be designing your own ridiculous, crazy clothing line-”

Sergio gives him a small punch to the shoulder.

“- _ow,_ alright, I’m kidding. We’d go on holiday to Marbella in the summer and you’d nag me every day about my _stupid, dyed hair_ and I’d nag you about yours being too long but we’d both cancel each other’s hairdresser appointments because, you know, we both like it, really.” Fernando’s voice is casual but the detail that he gives exposes him.

Sergio allows his words to sink in, before saying; “That’s it?”

There’s confusion in Fernando’s voice when he says; “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing’s _wrong_ with it,” Sergio concedes, and curls his arm tighter on Fernando’s waist to soften the comment. “I just…don’t you think your life might be….bigger, than that? Better?”

Fernando smiles. “I think that’s a nice life.”

“Yeah, it’s…. _nice._ But I want something more.” He focuses on the training figures that are beginning to tire in the Madrid heat. “I want to be like them, you know?”

Fernando looks over towards the pitch too. “What’s so great about them?”

Sergio doesn’t respond, continuing to simply gaze out with a wistful sigh. Fernando just….didn’t understand. Fernando didn’t have spots or braces; he had nice teeth and a nice face and regular, ordinary-sized features. And he didn’t get teased or ogled in the corridors; people simply ignored him, like a lone ghost drifting around the school. Sometimes, Sergio thought it’d be nice to pass under the radar. To have nobody call him out on the clothes he wore or the hair he had. But then he thought about being a superstar footballer, and decided that, no, he _wants_ to be recognised. He wants to be noticed.

“Why would you want to be down there with them, when you could be up here with me?” Fernando tries for a second time.

Again, Sergio doesn’t answer. And Fernando goes quiet too.

*

Sergio’s parents were out of town that night, so he calls Fernando and nags for him to come round; mainly because he doesn’t want to be lonely, but he also feels a little bad about the whole exchange earlier. Fernando is his best friend, after all, and it wasn’t as if he _really_ wants to be down on the pitch rather than with him in the rafters. Not all of the time, anyway.

When Sergio opens the door to let him in, he has a huge, cardboard box in his hands and a grin on his face. “Hi, gitano.”

Sergio rolls his eyes and waves him in. He struggles to push the box through the narrow doorframe but it eventually squeezes through. “What is that?” Sergio asks.

“Patience, patience.” Fernando wobbles slightly with the box but manages to stumble through to the kitchen and deposits it on the dining table. He pushes his hair back from his face and then says; “Have you got a drink?”

Sergio brings out two bottles of Coke from the fridge, popping off the lids. “What’s in the box, Fernando?” His voice is laced with suspicion.

Fernando smiles, taking the bottle from Sergio’s hands. “I was thinking about what you said earlier, gitano. And I was planning to give you this for Christmas but, I don’t know, I thought you might want it now.”

“It’s for me?” Sergio wanders over to the cardboard box and strokes a finger down the side. “It’s not a sewing machine, is it? I’m not creating a fashion line!”

Fernando’s shoulders’ quake with laughter but he shakes his head and opens up the cardboard flaps. With careful hands, he dips inside the box and brings out something that Sergio can’t quite figure out at first; it’s a strange, architectural structure that requires two hands to lift and place on the table. Sergio peers closer, his eyes scouring over tall, papier-mache walls, tiny, plasticine figurines and a stretch of lime-green felt. “Is it….a stadium?”

“It is,” Fernando says, visibly pleased at his own creation. “So, there’s you, in the middle of the pitch,” He points to one of the figurines in a striped kit, with a photo of Sergio’s face stuck to the head. “And, you’re the Captain of this huge, famous club – look, I put a little armband on you. You’re winning three goals to one on the scoreboard. And then, these are all the crowds that turn out to watch you each week, some are holding banners with your name on them. That’s me, there.” He points again to another figurine, this one stood in the stands and with ridiculous, blonde hair. “I never miss a single match.”

Sergio finds himself utterly speechless at the care and detail that has gone in to Fernando’s creation; there is even a figure outside the stadium selling tiny, paper scarves.

“Oh, and I got this too.” Fernando brings out a slightly crumpled packet from his back pocket. It has the graphics _‘wishing dust’_ across the front in bright yellow. “It’s kind of stupid, I know. But, I don’t know – I thought it might be nice.” He rips open the packet and sprinkles it across the makeshift stadium, making it sparkle. He glances at Sergio – standing with a gormless expression – and says; “You’re meant to make a wish, gitano.”

Sergio closes his eyes a little sceptically but when he wishes, he wishes with every cell in his body, as if he really believed that some cheap, supermarket glitter could rearrange his future.

“Hey,” A warm knuckle touches his cheek and he opens up his eyes. Fernando is still smiling. “Do you like it?”

Sergio gives a feeble nod, and then shakes some sense in to himself. “I….Fer, it’s amazing. Thank you.” He wraps a hand around Fernando’s neck and presses a wet kiss to his cheek. Fernando’s pulse stutters underneath his fingertips.

There’s a knock at the door and Sergio pulls away with a frown. He isn’t expecting anyone – unless it was his weird neighbour, who liked to drop in unannounced and show him pictures of her new curtains.

Wandering back in to the hall, he notches open the door – and gapes.

There are three figures stood on his doorstep. Three well-dressed, stylish-haired, sauntering figures; also known as Javier, Indie and Luc, three of the top talents on the school football team.

“Hi, Sergio.” Javier smirks at Sergio’s gaping mouth and he quickly closes it.

“Uh….I, uh, yes?” _Javier. Actually looking at you. Talking to you._

Javier’s smirk doesn’t waver at Sergio’s bumbling words. “We heard that your parent’s weren’t around. Thought it might be cool to come and…hang out.”

If Sergio hadn’t locked his jaw, it would have gaped again. “At….at my house? With me? With me, in my house? When you’re in my house?” _Shut up, fool,_ his mind scolds him.

“Sure.” Javier continues and pushes his way in to Sergio’s home. Indie and Luc follow, with equally smug smiles. Sergio watches as if he was in a dream; a dream where people like Javier thought that hanging out with him would be _cool._

“I’ve invited a couple of other people round. I hope you don’t mind?” Javier says.

Sergio shakes his head. “N-n-no, not at all. That’d be awesome.”

“D’you have any beer?” Luc asks.

Sergio feels like a stranger in his own home, watching them wander around his hall as casual and comfortable as could be. “I….I don’t know. My parents might have some liqueur or something, in their cabinet?”

Luc and Indie snigger at his answer and Sergio flushes. Javier just continues to smile. “Where is it?”

“In the kitchen.” Sergio directs them through, where Fernando is sat down at the dining table, drinking from his Coke. There’s a frown marring his face when Sergio is flanked by the other, three figures.

“What’s going on?” He asks, making no attempt to be quiet or subtle. Sergio tries to eye him furiously, but Fernando just stares back.

There is a snicker behind him. “What the _fuck_ is that?” Someone asks. Sergio watches as Javier, Indie and Luc all hone in on the makeshift stadium that sat on the table. “A dollhouse?”

Sergio suddenly feels mortified. He quickly goes and gathers up the stadium, mumbling as he says; “Nothing, it’s nothing, it’s just a stupid toy from when I was a child.” He doesn’t look at Fernando as he speaks. “I’ll, uh…put this away. The cabinet is just there.” He indicates a shelf in the top-left of his kitchen. He wants to tell them not to take too much because his parents would notice, but decides that’s a lame comment and scuttles out towards the lounge. Stuffing the stadium in to a closet, he walks back towards the kitchen but is stopped on the way.

Fernando has a clutch on his arm. “What are they doing here?” He says, his voice low.

“They wanted to hang out, alright?” Sergio gently pries his arm out of Fernando’s grip. “ _Them._ They wanted to hang out with _me._ Cool people wanted to hang out with me!”

“I think you’re way cooler than any of them.”

Sergio snorts. “Come on, Fernando. We’re losers.”

“What?” Fernando’s voice is laced with hurt and Sergio sighs.

“This’ll be fun. Trust me.”

*

As it turned out, Javier’s ‘ _couple of people’_ is half the school. Sergio’s house is packed full of bodies with barely an inch of space to move between them. Someone had found his dad’s old records and was blasting out cheap music and his parent’s liqueur cabinet had been emptied out within the first hour, so a huge crate of beers was delivered on his home address. Sergio has no idea how he was going to explain _that_ when his parent’s return home.

But he is determined not to think about any of that – not the vase that is wobbling precariously close to the edge of the shelf as people dance around it, not the splashes of beer that are staining his carpets, not the inevitable fact that people are probably throwing up in his bathroom or his garden. Instead, he is just going to remember that all these people are having an awesome time in _his_ house and that he will almost certainly be invited in to the most popular clique in school on Monday morning, a clique brimming with Javier’s.

He’d lost sight of him and Indie as more people had flocked in to the house, but he’d stumbled across Luc once, who’d consumed a lot of alcohol at that point and called him _dude_ – as if they were friends. Which, Sergio hopes, they would be by the end of the evening. He’d even scarpered upstairs to throw on one of his less embarrassing t-shirts and gelled his hair back, in an attempt to impress them.

His drink is sloshing around precariously in the cup as he tries to muscle his way through the hall and up the stairs. His house has never been so heaving, not even at Christmas when his hoard of Sevillan relatives would make their way to Madrid for the celebrations. He weaves in and out, spilling some of his beer on an oblivious couple who are making-out on his stairs and pops out on to his landing. The crowds are sparser up here.

“Nice party, Sergio.” A girl says as she passes him; a really, _really_ hot girl with dark hair and eyes. She offers him a sweet smile and makes her way down the stairs with her friend, giving Sergio another glance over her shoulder as she does and then disappearing. Sergio’s knees tremble.

He escapes in to his bedroom, clicking the door shut behind him and starting when he sees that someone is sat on his bed.

“Fer?”

Fernando doesn’t react to Sergio’s entrance. He has a picture frame clasped between his long fingers and is tilting it left and right, as if trying to catch the moonlight from the window.

“What are you doing up here, in the dark?” Sergio asks, wandering towards the bed. A closer inspection reveals the picture to be of him and Fernando as children, ice-cream smeared across their faces and matching grins directed towards the camera. “You should come downstairs. I’m throwing a good party.”

Fernando snorts. “It’s not _your_ party, it’s theirs.”

“Don’t be like that.” Sergio huffs. “We were going to have a boring night in, doing something stupid like watching old movies or playing FIFA. Instead, we’re at a…a _really cool party._ ”

Fernando stands up from the bed and places the picture frame carefully back atop of Sergio’s dresser. He is still for several beats and when he eventually turns around, he says; “Do you think hanging out with me is boring?”

“What? Fernando, that’s not what I meant-”

“Are you ashamed to be my friend?”

“No, of course not!” Sergio says defensively. “I’m…I’m trying to _help_ you! I’m making friends with them so that _we-”_ He gestures between them both. “-will be invited in to the best social circles.”

Fernando pulls at his blonde hair in frustration. “For God’s sake, Sergio, they don’t want to be your friend!” He cries. “They’re only here because you have an empty house to drink in and when they’re done, they’ll just leave. They’re not _cool_ people, they’re jerks!”

Sergio opens and closes his mouth several times, but a coherent answer will not form. They stare each other down for almost a whole minute. Sergio can feel his hand that was holding the cup shaking violently; Fernando and he never fought, not really. A stupid, petty argument here, and another stupid, petty argument there, but it was never _serious._

Finally, Fernando lets out a slow breath. “I really thought you were better than all this, Sergio.”

They look at each other for a second longer, before Fernando shrugs past him and out of the door, leaving Sergio – speechless – in his room. Speechless and….angry. _Yes_ , Sergio decides. _Definitely angry._ What was so wrong with him wanting more than just _one_ friend? What was wrong with him wanting to be Javier’s friend, or Luc’s or Indie’s? What was so wrong with him wanting to be popular and _liked?_

He slams his drink down on the bedside table – certain that _he_ was in the right and Fernando was in the wrong – and runs back out in to the hall, leaning over the banister. He sees Fernando’s mop of blonde hair disappearing down the stairs and is about to call down to him – to say what, he isn’t too sure he knows – when a hand grabs his shoulder and spins him around. It’s Javier.

His smile is lazy. “This is a nice party, Sergio.” He says.

“Oh.” Sergio smiles sheepishly. “Thanks.” _Say something better, idiot._ “My parents head down to Seville a lot. You can come round whenever.”

“Sure.” Javier simply says, before throwing a drunken arm around Sergio’s shoulders. “Why don’t you come and play a game?”

Sergio isn’t given an opportunity to answer before Javier’s begins to lead him down the stairs and towards the lounge. People greet him along the way and – unless Sergio has had _far_ too much to drink – people acknowledge _him_ too; through mere association with Javier. He can’t help the smile that spreads across his face.

Javier drags him to a small huddle of people in one corner of the lounge; Indie and Luc are there, along with a couple of other people from the football team and – the girl that smiled at Sergio.

“Sergio’s here for the game,” Javier announces with a smirk and there are a few snickers. “You should go first; it is _your_ party after all.”

“What’s the game?” Sergio asks, as Luc brandishes a scarf that must have been stolen from his cloakroom.

Javier holds him in place. “You’re going to go in to the closet and some _very_ lucky girl is going to join you, and you can do whatever you want with her.” He says against Sergio’s ear. The beautiful girl catches his eye, and Sergio tries not to flush. Her smile is the last thing he sees before the scarf is tied around his head, blindfolding him. He feels Javier’s hands push him in a certain direction and then a door is clicked open.

He’s nudged inside, and Javier whispers; “No peeking.” And then the door is snapped shut behind him.

A blanket of dust and apprehension settles in the closet and Sergio feels himself begin to sweat. _Shit._ He’d never even _kissed_ a girl before. How was he going to handle doing – well, _anything_ – in his small, dusty closet? He smoothed down his hair as much as he could while blindfolded, checking that the smell of his aftershave was still lingering and that his lips weren’t chapped.

He sits down against the lowest shelf, folding his legs underneath him and waiting in anticipation. He thinks about the beautiful girl and how her hair might feel between his fingers and whether she’d smell as sweet as she looked. He thinks for a long time, sight still inhibited by the blindfold and doesn’t really consider the fact that several minutes has passed. Not until he notices that the chatter of voices is much quieter and the only sound comes from his dad’s records, playing on a loop.

He frowns slightly and pulls down the scarf. His house doesn’t seem to be quaking as much as before and there’s a cold feeling slithering down his back that suggests that he might even be…alone?

The cold feeling disappears when he hears his name called. “Sergio?”

It’s Fernando and Sergio hears footsteps approaching the closet door, before it’s pulled open. He takes in Sergio sitting on the floor with a scarf hanging loosely around his neck and stares. “What are you doing in here?”

“I….” Sergio stands up and pushes past Fernando, looking out in to his house. It’s empty – just littered with plastic cups and bottles. “I don’t….where is everybody?”

“They all left. I saw them leaving your house – they took all your beer, by the way. And a lot of your food. I tried to ask one of them where you were, but-”

“They left?” Sergio repeats, with a dry mouth. “But they….I thought…” He turns to Fernando with a glare. “Did you do something?”

Fernando looks taken aback. “Me?”

“You must have done something!” Sergio suddenly shouts, hot anger bubbling inside of him. “They were my friends! They wanted to be here, they wanted to hang out with me!”

“Gitano-”

“No!” Sergio screams and escapes back in to his closet, yanking the lock in to place. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t been here, everything would have been fine!”

Fernando is banging his hands against the closet door, making it rattle. “Sergio, I didn’t do anything! Come on, we’re friends, stop this-”

“This is _your_ fault!” Sergio begins to sob and bangs his head against the lowest shelf to block out Fernando’s voice. “I hate this, I hate my life, I hate _me!”_ He continues bashing his head, feeling something like dust sprinkle down on to his shoulders; he thinks about his acne, his bad hair and his braces, his ridiculous nose and his awkward, uncomfortable manner. He thinks about himself, and he just  _hates._

He closes his eyes; and it all fades.


	2. Chapter Two

Sergio groans as he rouses himself from sleep.

_Sleep. He couldn’t remember falling asleep._

As he tries to untangle his sleep-addled head and blink through the darkness, his hands seek out soft sheets and a warm duvet. His head is cushioned against a pillow. _He couldn’t remember going up to bed either._

He might have hit his head so hard against the shelf in his closet that he’d knocked himself out; and Fernando had probably bust open the door and dragged him upstairs to his bedroom. _He’ll be in stitches over this for weeks,_ Sergio’s mind grumbles. _And he’ll have to explain a broken closet door to his parents too._

The thought pulls him from sleep completely.

His parents.

His house.

The party.

The _mess._

 _Shit._ His hands finally manage to source a reason for the darkness – the blindfold – and he yanks it down from his eyes, allowing it to hang around his neck like a scarf.

His parents were going to be back this morning, and none of the house had been cleaned.

He rubs at his temples, allowing himself a calming breath. _Alright, there’s no need to panic._ All the beer bottles and cups have to be tidied; _he can do that in half an hour._ And all the stains have to been removed; _he knows where the detergent is._ His parent’s liqueur cabinet has to be restocked; _he can convince Fernando to bring round some from his house until-”_

Sergio’s mind judders to a shuddering halt when he reaches out to check the time on his alarm clock and finds that the _Spiderman_ analogue alarm that he’s had since he was twelve years old has been replaced with a sleek, black digital clock.

It’s at that moment when his eyes finally take note of the rest of his surroundings.

_This isn’t his room._

Sergio’s room is small and with a slanted ceiling that he bashes his head against ever since he reached six feet; his room has a single bed and a duvet that’s several inches too short so that his feet poke out of the bottom; his room is plastered from head to toe with scuffed-up posters of flamenco, _Seville FC_ and Manuel Benítez, _El Cordobés,_ so much so that no wallpaper could be seen; his room ha stuffed animals still lining the shelves and propped up against the pillow on his bed.

 _This_ room was like he’d stepped in between the pages of an _Elle Décor_ magazine; it was all white and silver and black, and full of glossy, contemporary furniture. It was sharp and slick – nothing looked out of place.

Sergio rubs his eyes with persistent fingers, hoping that the image in front of his eyes will disappear when he opens them again; he isn’t even a little surprised when it doesn’t. This felt far too real.

“Oh god, Sergio. What the fuck did you do last night?” He mutters to himself as he pushes himself out of the unfamiliar bed and pads across the bed to the nearest floor. He racks his brain desperately as he does so, trying to remember what happened last night; _Fernando, then party, then closet._ That was all he could latch on to.

He pushes open the door and glances down the corridor. It’s also white and polished. And deserted.

 _Maybe he was drunker than he thought last night? Maybe he’d gone home with someone –_ but that’d be ridiculous, he was in his own home.

His hip knock against the corner of a glass cabinet and, when the pain subsides, Sergio realises it’s crammed with trophies and awards. Inspecting a little closer, he sees a replica of the _FIFA World Cup._

 _Huh,_ he thinks. _A football fan._

All the inscriptions on the trophies were for _Real Madrid FC_ and _La Roja._ Whoever lived here seemed to have a replica for almost every award it was possible to win in club and international football.

_Alright. A really, really big football fan. A Spanish, Los Blancos fan, no less._

But it still didn’t answer the question of whose home this was and why he happened to be waking up in it. All the confusion and – if Sergio was being honest – slight panic made his head hurt.

He begins to move from the trophy cabinet when an unfocused and distorted reflection in the cabinet makes him freeze.

There was someone behind him.

He spins around – a string of apologies and excuses and explanations for _why_ he was in someone else’s home all sitting on the tip of his tongue – but there was nobody behind him. The corridor was still quiet.

With a small frown, he turns back to look at the cabinet and the reflection is still there. Sergio blinks. And the reflection blinks.

And that’s when it hit him.

Not in a lightbulb flashing above your head, soul-searching epiphany, _Eureka_ moment of realisation – it was closer to being cracked across the head with a cricket bat, and then in the stomach.

The reflection was _him._ The strange, unfamiliar and indistinguishable face staring back was _him._

He backs up from the cabinet until his body hits the wall; there’s some nausea bubbling around in his stomach and threatening to creep up his throat.

“Oh, Jesus, you’re having one fucked up dream, Sergio.” He pinches himself, and then does it again when the sting resonates through his arm with perfect clarity. _An uncomfortably vivid dream._

He escapes out from the corridor, finding himself in a room that’s larger than the entire first floor of his house; it stretches across a lounge and kitchen and the far wall consists entirely of glass. And the view is not of suburban Madrid. He isn’t even sure he’s _visited_ whichever area of Madrid this building is in. He’s surrounded by high-rise towers and up-market stores.

“Oh, god. Calm down, calm down, calm down.”

He wanders over towards the window, pressing his hands and his face against it; he’s in an apartment - that much is obvious now. _A penthouse apartment,_ he suspects, from the height and décor _._ He can see his reflection in this glass too, and it’s clearer this time.

He’s almost unrecognisable. His hair – that his parents never allow him to cut – has been chopped off, cropped above his ears. His nose has _definitely_ had some work done on it and his teeth – when he bares his lips and runs his tongue across them – are perfectly straight and white. It’s not until he glances further down that he notices the shocking amount of ink that covers his arms and legs; _his dad would have an absolute fit if he saw these,_ Sergio thinks. Running his hands down his chest and towards his abdomen, he can feel the muscles protruding against his skin and through the thin material of his t-shirt.

_A six-pack. Sergio Ramos has got a fucking six-pack._

He almost laughs, until he realises that this is hopefully, probably, maybe a stupid dream and drops his hands.

Dream or not – he looks good. Really, _really_ good.

And he isn’t seventeen.

Turning away from the window – the reflection was starting to creep him out – his eyes latch on to a collage that had been pinned up above a black recliner in the lounge. It’s an assortment of newspaper clippings and photographs, and they all matched up with the replica trophies; headlines about Spain ending their half-a-century trophy drought, Real Madrid winning La Liga three years in a row, thrashing Barcelona with their best goal difference ever.

And there he was.

Well, there was the person that he looked like. Standing in the photographs – lifting up the trophies.

His head is definitely hurting now; he goes and collapses on the recliner, slapping his face several times in a hope that it will rouse some sort of understanding in him. There’s a small pile of letters spanning the sleek table in front of him and he quickly flicks through; they’re all addressed to Sergio Ramos.

“Fuck.” He dumps the letters back on the table, his voice hitching. “I live here.”

He picks out a phone on the wall and runs over to it, almost ripping it from the hook. He dials his home phone and waits – impatiently – for one of his parents to pick. Nobody does, and an automated message answers.

“Hi, this is Paqui.” He’d never found the voice of his mother so comforting before. “Sorry that we missed you, we’re in Cairo until the eleventh of-”

“You’re on holiday? _Without me?”_ Sergio demands of the answer-machine.

The sound of a shower starting prevents him from probing the automated message further. He puts the phone down, and glances down the corridor. A door is ajar that Sergio is certain was closed when he passed it before; steam is billowing from the room inside and there’s a soft, steady spray echoing down towards him.

With his hairs rising on the back of his neck, Sergio pads back down the corridor – picking up a shoehorn as a weak, makeshift weapon – and presses his ear against the door. Who’d be taking a shower in his (apparently) home? Not a burglar, surely?

“Uh,” He clears his throat, tries to stop it from shaking so much. “Uh, who’s there?”

There’s no response, so he calls a little louder. “Who’s there?”

“Sergio?”

A voice. A _girl’s_ voice.

Then the door is thrown open, and it’s not a girl that appears. It’s a woman.

“Sergio?” She says again. “Hasn’t Iker picked you up for training? You’re going to be late.”

Sergio can’t find the words to reply – he’s too distracted and dumbfounded by the woman’s unabashed _nakedness_. His cheeks are flaming so much that eggs could be fried on them.

“Speaking of which, I told you about the shoot tonight, didn’t I?” The woman continues, oblivious to the melting of Sergio’s brain. “I know that you have your auction tonight but I just couldn’t shuffle this around; it’s alright, isn’t it? You didn’t really need me there.”

Sergio opens and closes his mouth a couple of times – isn’t really sure what he’s trying to do. “Um…”

“You know, if Iker’s running late…” The woman trails off with a lower note to her voice, and leans invitingly against the bathroom door. “You’re welcome to join me.”

And because this woman, quite frankly, frightens him and she’s talking about people and places he’s never heard of before and really, he’s just a seventeen-year old boy with no sexual experience of any sort – he runs.

He grabs the first shoes that he sees – a pair of battered trainers – and throws open what he assumes to be the front door. His assumption is correct and he escapes down the corridor, hammering the button on the lift until it opens and slumping against the wall when the doors slide shut. Soft, orchestra music flutters from the speakers.

“Oh my god, what’s going on?” He shoves his feet in to the trainers and laces them up with trembling fingertips. He had no idea what he was doing or where he was going; his home – his _real_ home – seemed like a good start. And Fernando’s. Fernando would be able to explain what had happened.

The lift doors open and he walks out and across a reception. Someone behind the desk speaks to him.

“Good morning, Mr. Ramos.”

“Uh, hi.” He gives an awkward wave, watching as their impassive expression dissolves in to surprise; maybe he wasn’t meant to greet them back.

He feels nothing but relief when the double-set glass doors are held open for him and he walks out on the street, soaking up the sunshine that’s beating down against the pavement. _Sunshine._ He recognises that, at least. And pavements, and buildings, and a blue sky. This was all more familiar territory.

The relief is short-lived.

“Hey, Sergio!”

Sergio turns to see someone leaning against a car – the kind that he’d have posters of in his room, black and glossy – and waving him over. Everything about them screams _expensive,_ from the sunglasses to the shoes. “I was just about to call. Come on, get in – we’re going to be late.”

Sergio digs his heels in to the ground. There’s no chance that he’s getting in a car with a stranger.

The stranger removes his sunglasses; gives Sergio a once-over. “What the fuck did you do last night?”

 _That’s what I’d like to know,_ Sergio wants to howl, but realises that the stranger is looking at his clothes. He looks down – he’s in a t-shirt, boxer shorts and trainers with no socks, and there’s a scarf hanging around his neck. “Uh….”

“For God’s sake, get in the car; before the paparazzi see you.”

 _The paparazzi?_ Sergio doesn’t have an opportunity to ponder further as the stranger grabs his arm and steers him to the passenger seat. He’s bundled up in to the car and then the stranger is behind the wheel, starting up the engine and pulling away from the pavement before Sergio can even consider coming up with an excuse. He straps himself in with slow, cautious movements, edging himself over on the seat and away from the stranger.

The stranger flicks on the radio, alternating between stations before finally settling and asking; “So, then. Spill it.”

Sergio keeps on hand close to the passenger door. “Spill what?”

“What happened last night?”

And because the confusion and anxiety and complete bizarreness of the situation has completely overwhelmed Sergio at this point, he starts talking to this stranger. “I don’t know, I don’t know what happened last night! I was in my closet, alright? My closet, in _my_ house. And then I woke up, and….I was here. In this apartment I’ve never seen before, but it’s got all my letters and pictures of me and I’m older, older than I was anyway, I’m only seventeen-”

“Jesus, Sergio.” The stranger cuts across him, beeping as he overtakes someone. “We’ve spoken about this before; if you’re going to drink mid-season, do it when we _don’t_ have a morning training session. And next time, invite me.”

“No, I’m being serious, there was this woman in my shower! And she was naked.” He whispers the last part.

The stranger splutters out a laugh then. “Oh dear god – not _naked._ ” He chuckles again. “I thought you no longer took women back to your place? Wasn’t Pilar getting suspicious?

“Who?”

The stranger eyes him. “You’re really hungover, aren’t you?” He shakes his head with a smile. “Coach is going to rip you to shreds.”

“Coach?”

“Jesus.” The stranger just repeats and notches up the radio. Sergio wants to probe further and ask about what he’s doing in this car and where they’re going and why this stranger knows so much about him, but the set of their shoulders and the increased volume of the radio suggests more questions wouldn’t be welcome. He settles back in his seat – a little less concerned that the person he’s in the car with is a serial axe-murderer – and watches Madrid fly past the passenger window.

*

The drive continues for another fifteen minutes and Sergio sits in silence with the stranger, occasionally listening to the odd song that pops up on the radio. He doesn’t recognise most of them.

His interest isn’t truly piqued until the final beats on an unfamiliar song finish and the radio host babbles on about the artist and their upcoming concert, and then recites the time – and date.

Sergio sits up straight in the passenger seat. He tries to find a way to rewind the station before remembering that he’s an idiot, and you can’t _rewind_ the radio. “Hey, hey, the date!” He says to the stranger.

“What about it?” The stranger steers off the main road.

“They said…they said it was 2014. _2014._ ” He wants to shake the stranger but even he knows that’d be stupid when he’s driving. “Is that right? Is it 2014?”

“Yeah.” He gives another of those looks.

Sergio gapes at him. “But…you know what that means, don’t you?”

“That it’s been way too long since we won the Champions League.” The stranger grumbles.

Sergio ignores his statement. “It’s been ten years! _Ten. Years._ I’ve woken up _ten years_ in the future!”

The stranger doesn’t say anything – pulls in to a car park and shuts off the engine. He flicks the radio off and then adjusts himself on the seat, so that he’s half-facing Sergio. “You need to pull yourself together. We have a really, _really_ important function this evening. And a really, _really_ important match at the weekend.”

“A match?”

The stranger rolls his eyes up towards the roof of the car – as if hoping for some sort of divine intervention – and then says. “Get a grip on yourself, Sergio. Repeat after me.”

Sergio nods – mainly because he’s worried that this man _will_ axe-murder him.

“I’m Sergio Ramos; an international football superstar.”

Sergio can’t help the noise of surprise that escapes him; can’t help the stuttering of his heart or the lurch in his stomach. He isn’t even sure the stranger’s speaking Spanish. “I… _what?”_

“Repeat it.” The stranger insists.

“I’m Sergio Ramos,” He begins and then, the smallest of smiles creeps across his face. “An international football superstar.”

The stranger nods. “I’ve won almost every single sporting accolade there is.”

“I’ve won almost every single sporting accolade there is.” There’s definitely a smile on his face now.

“And I play for the most successful, most marketable team on the planet.”

Sergio stares. “Which team?”

The stranger shakes his head, but there’s a small smile on his own face. “You’re hopeless.” He sighs, and claps him on the shoulder. He exits the car, and Sergio follows suit.

And finds himself standing in front of the _Bernabéu_ stadium.

Suddenly, he realises that this might not be a dream.

And he’s pretty certain he doesn’t want it to be, either.

*

Sergio keeps hot on the heels of the sort-of stranger as he weaves through the car park and towards the entrance stadium – or, the footballers’ entrance, Sergio supposes. There’s security standing in front of the door and they stand aside to let the sort-of stranger in, holding the door open for him.

“I’m with him.” Sergio tells them.

Security exchange a look with each other, keeping the door open for him. “Good morning, Mr. Ramos.” One of them says.

The realisation that he’s recognisable – that people know who he is from his face alone – plasters the smile back across him. “Good morning.” He responds brightly and continues to follow the sort-of stranger through the stadium.

He’d only been to the _Bernabéu_ twice in his life, and one of those times wasn’t even to watch a match. It had been a school trip and they’d been taken on a tour of the museum and pitch; Sergio had found it boring, if he was being honest, and had managed to convince Fernando to sneak off with him and sit up in the VIP box, snacking on the crisps and chocolate from their lunches while they added questionable commentary to an imaginary match that was happening. The other time had been a pre-season match that his father had taken him too, and that had been a little more interesting. Sergio hadn’t been so bothered about watching the match than he was being the player on the pitch, _being_ watched.

Not that he’d ever made any real effort to have a career in football. He’d play it in the park sometimes, and he’d had a small stint on the school team when he was eleven. But it was never something he’d ever seriously pursued – it was the _life_ of a footballer that had attracted him, rather than the sport itself.

But the _Bernabéu_ could never be unfamiliar. It was symbolic of Madrid and success and wealth and – Sergio realises – him. _He_ was now symbolic of Madrid and success and wealth.

 _If only Javier could see me now,_ he thinks. Then he thinks that Javier probably could see him now – had witnessed his rise to fame and fortune over the past ten years, along with everyone else he went to school with – and laughs. Out loud.

“Sergio.” The sort-of stranger says to him, and he stops laughing. “It would help if you at least _pretended_ not to be hungover.”

“I’m not-” Sergio begins to protest, but stops himself short. Hell, maybe he was hungover – if so, this was the best alcohol-induced fantasy he’d ever had. “Alright. I’m on my best behaviour.” He does a mock cross over his heart.

The sort-of stranger rolls his eyes and continues walking. He leads Sergio down a corridor that doubles-up as a timeline for the history of _Real Madrid FC_. Sergio wants to stop and look for pictures of him, but the sort-of stranger is walking too quickly and then he’s approaching a door and indicating for Sergio to go through it. “Come on, we’re late.”

Sergio pushes himself through the door and starts when he realises he’s in a changing room.

 _The_ Real Madrid changing room.

He almost does a small jig of excitement but is put off by the other people in the changing room, all staring at him.

He starts to panic; _oh, god, what if he looks seventeen again, with his big nose and braces and-”_

“What on earth are you wearing, Ramos?” Someone says, and then everyone dissolves in to laughter. It echoes around the room.

Sergio joins in a little nervously, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Seriously, Iker? You let him leave the house _in that?”_ Another voice asks between bouts of giggles.

And that name _does_ ring a bell, though Sergio isn’t sure whether it’s because he’s familiar with the player or because the strange woman in his shower mentioned it.

The sort-of stranger – _Iker_ – shrugs, shouldering past Sergio and heading towards the bench. “We were running late.”

Sergio follows, before realising that Iker was heading for his own locker and stands awkwardly in the middle of the changing room, looking around for his own. He picks it out in the far corner and his heart begins to stutter again as he takes in the replica shirt that’s concealed in a glass case above his locker – can hardly believe the lettering that spells out his own name, or the picture of himself that’s spread across the locker door. He stands up on the bench and presses his palms against the glass case, tracing one finger along the number _4_ that’s stitched in to the shirt.

“You alright, Sergio?” Someone asks him. He glances over his shoulder to see everyone in the changing room exchanging confused looks with one another – _probably because you’re drooling over a locker,_ his mind hisses at him. Iker looks like he wants to face-palm himself.

Sergio looks back towards the shirt and almost wants to laugh again; but he doesn’t want to give them any more ammunition, so settles on a; “Yeah. I’m fine.”

_He was absolutely fantastic._

_*_

All of Sergio’s glee and happiness deserts him as soon as he’s changed and out on the pitch – because he realises he doesn’t actually know how to play football. How to play _good_ football, at least.

But this time, it is like a lightbulb flashing above your head, soul-searching epiphany, _Eureka_ moment of realisation. He’s looks at the ball, and it’s as if his head knows what to do.

His own skill and talent astounds him throughout the entire training session, as he weaves and ducks and spins other players in circles. He’s never felt so agile before, so confident of his own feet, in his own skin. He can’t believe he’s lasted seventeen years never knowing what _this_ felt like.

He’s initially disappointed that he’s a defender – a star striker sounds much more appealing – but it doesn’t last long, as he scores and wheels away, pretending that the empty stands in front of him are full of people screaming and shouting his name. _They will be,_ he thinks to himself. _You’ve already experienced this time and time again._

He’s so distracted by himself, that he gets snapped at by the Coach – the silver-haired, stern-faced Coach that Sergio reminds himself to look up on the internet. Along with the rest of the team. It’ll start being suspicious if he keeps calling people ‘man’ and ‘dude’ and ‘you’, instead of their names (that he doesn’t yet know). He’s playing around with the ball, practicing some fancy tricks his mind somehow knows how to conjure up when the Coach tells – _demands_ – him to pay attention and he reluctantly drops the ball, joining the huddle of players.

“This auction can’t go wrong tonight,” The Coach is saying as Sergio half-heartedly listens, shooting longing glances at the abandoned football. “Our reputation as a club has been….controversial, recently. But we are who we are, and we’re not ashamed of that. This auction will appeal to the people that we _want_ to appeal to; we’re here to win trophies, not popularity contests.” He gestures with his hands. “However, I don’t want to wake up tomorrow morning and see all your drunken faces splashed across the front page of every newspaper in Spain. You represent the most marketable club in the world, never forget that.”

They’re allowed to disperse and Sergio starts wandering back towards the training room, jumping when he feels an arm draped across his shoulders. Someone with an afro so huge that it adds an extra three inches to their height.

“You’re still on for mine this afternoon, right?” They ask.

“This afternoon…” Sergio trails off, kicking the ball at his feet lazily. “Right. This afternoon. What was the plan, again?”

“You and Cris were going to come round, remember? I’ve stocked up on beer and pizza – and Cris said Irina was going to bring round some of her hot friends.” They wiggle their eyebrows at Sergio. “Come on, Mourinho will never know. And we’ll head to the auction afterwards.”

Sergio considers it; figures that it would be awesome to hang out with superstar footballers, even though he’s probably done it lots of times before. And beer and pizza almost sounded… _normal._ The kind of thing that Sergio knew how to do. He didn’t know who Cris or Irina were, but Sergio was still an adolescent boy (at heart) and hot girls were definitely appealing.

But there was a far more pressing issue on his mind.

“I can’t,” He decides, shrugging apologetically. He might’ve felt worse about bailing if he actually knew who the person he was talking to was. He makes another mental note to internet search the whole team. And himself. "There's somebody that I have to find." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I know that footballers don't train at their stadium, they have separate training grounds. I just thought the Bernabéu was more exciting for Sergio to see than the Ciudad. Holla, for artistic licence! 
> 
> 2\. I LOVE the conversation between Jenna and Lucy/Tom-Tom in '13 Going On 30' when she first wakes up, so I just had to take altered snippets and throw them in here.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sergio's timeline doesn't follow the timeline of the actual Sergio so not all the events in his life are true to real life.

“Sergio? _Sergio?”_ A huff. “Sergio!”

Sergio had been scrolling through the contacts on his mobile phone until someone’s incessant yapping forces him to redirect his attention. He’s sat down on the bench in the changing room and feeling a lot more in control of this interesting albeit strange scenario after a hot shower and a fresh set of clothes that had been tucked in his locker; the graphic shirt and brightly-coloured trousers suggested that his fashion sense was no less quirky than it had been as a teenager. Nobody looks twice at him though, and Sergio has the feeling that somehow his clothing was more acceptable now – because he was famous and rich, he supposes.

“What is it?” Sergio asks of the man standing beside him

“Cris tells me that you cancelled on him and Marcelo.” Iker says.

“Oh.” Sergio’s frowning now; he’s flicked through the contacts on his mobile twice, and he can’t find Fernando’s name. Unless he was under a pseudonym?

Iker sits down on the bench next to him. His voice is soft when he says; “Is everything alright? I know that you had a panic with that photo last week-”

“What photo?” Sergio is only half-concentrating. Why wouldn’t Fernando be on his phone?

“The one you told me about; some paparazzi had managed to snap a picture of you taking a stripper home. You had to give them a lot of money to keep them quiet, but…I thought it was all taken care of?”

“Right, of course.” Sergio shoves his phone up against Iker’s face, so close that Iker almost goes cross-eyed. “Are these all my contacts?” He really isn’t too sure how smartphones work.

Iker bats the phone from his face and rubs his nose ruefully. “Sure. Why? Deleting all the numbers of girls you’ve picked up in bars?”

Sergio wishes Iker would quit with all the mentions of women and strippers – he’s almost making him sound like some kind of Casanova-ish asshole. “No, I can’t find someone. Do you know Fernando Torres?”

Iker shrugs, shoving all his training gear in to his locker. “No. Should I?” He adds.

“I don’t know.” Sergio says, because he doesn’t. “He comes to all the matches, though. He wouldn’t miss one, I know he wouldn’t.” Sergio tries to sound certain of himself. “I’ve never mentioned him?”

“Maybe, I don’t know.” Iker’s seems uninterested in his questioning, throwing his bag over his shoulder. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Sergio rubs at his temples with persistent fingers. He wonders whether headaches are a side-effect of being hurtled forwards through time. “Yeah; I’m alright.”

“D’you need a lift home?”

Sergio glances down at his phone again; starts to tap in a number. “No. Thanks, though.”

Iker gives another shrug. “Alright. I’ll see you for the auction, this evening.”

He exits the changing room just as Sergio lifts the phone to his ear. A quick glance-around confirms that he’s the only person left in the _Bernabéu_ changing rooms.

The wait for someone to pick up the phone is agonisingly long - so long that Sergio begins to suspect that nobody is going to answer - when the dial tone is cut short.

“Hello? Hello?”

The familiarity of the voice on the other end of the line stirs up something warm in Sergio’s stomach; something recognisable, something he _knows._

“Hello? Are you trying to sell something, because-?”

“No, I’m not. Sorry. Flori…I mean, Mrs. Torres?”

The voice on the other end of the line pauses, then says; “Yes?”

“It’s me.” Sergio adds helpfully and then remembers that Flori can’t see him – _and then_ remembers that even if she could, she probably wouldn’t recognise him. “Sorry. It’s Sergio.”

Another pause. This one is longer. “Sergio _Ramos?”_

Sergio is initially confused at Flori’s insistence of his surname – because, who else would it be? Then he realises that it’s strange for him to be calling the Torres’ family landline, and tries to clarify. “Sorry, I just....well, I wasn’t sure this number still worked. I wasn’t sure if you’d moved or…something.” He’s confusing himself with his own answers. What if he still went round to Fernando’s family home for visits? He should know whether they still lived in their family home or not.

“That’s…alright.” Flori responds.

She’s clearly waiting for Sergio to explain his call, so he comes up with some half-assed excuse that his mind can conjure up in a few seconds. “I, um…I got a new phone, you see – the other one broke. So, I can’t access all my old contacts. And I didn’t have another copy of all the numbers or…anything. So, um – well, do you have Fernando’s number?”

His pathetic story has so many holes in it that he’s surprised Flori doesn’t call him out on it straight-away. Instead, there’s _another_ pause before some scattered rustling begins to patter down the line. “Oh. I suppose so.” She sounds uncertain, possibly even uncomfortable. “Although I don’t know his number off by heart-”

“His address, then.” Sergio almost pleads.

After a little more grappling, he manages to extract an address from Flori that he scribbles down on his legs (his arms are too covered in ink to make out any writing). Sergio looks over the address and notes, with a wry smile, that it’s in the Sol District. He parts from Flori with a mumbled ‘thank you’ and then hangs up and is racing outside of the _Bernabéu,_ and waving his arms around on the side of the road until a car pulls up.

At least taxi-hailing hadn’t changed.

*

Sergio grips on to the seat in front of him as the taxi screeches and swerves through the streets of Madrid, the driver removing his eyes from the road, far too often for Sergio’s liking, to recount his favourite Real Madrid matches.

“That comeback at _Old Trafford_ three years’ back was….” He stops and takes one hand off the wheel to press it against his chest. “That was one of the most amazing moments of my life. Honestly, it was better than the day my kid was born. And when Raúl scored that goal against Internazionale, I think…Jesus, I think my heart gave out. I was there, you know? At the San Siro stadium?”

Sergio nodded along dumbly, unable to speak when his mind was too busy trying to remember all the names and teams and stadiums that the taxi driver was mentioning.

The car pulls up along the curb next to a block of small but well-maintained apartments and Sergio breathes out an imperceptible sigh of relief. That taxi driver isn’t finished with him yet though, and continues to keep chatting away.

“I had a season ticket for Real Madrid a few years ago, but my wife told me to ditch it. She said I should spend more time with the kids than football,” The man gives a huff. “I tried getting it again just last year, but there’s too many tourists now, you know? Harder for the _real_ fans get any tickets-”

“So, thanks for the ride.” Sergio says and then absentmindedly pats his pockets – realising that he doesn’t have any money on him. He’d been so freaked out by the woman in his shower that he’d escaped from the apartment with no wallet or change; he wasn’t even sure where he kept all of that. “Oh, shit. Look, I’m really sorry, I don’t have any money to pay you with.”

The taxi driver eyes him through the rear-view mirror, almost with a look of; _you’re a multimillionaire footballer, how can you not have a few euros to pay for a taxi?_ Then he smiles, and says; “Hey, you give me more than money whenever you win a game for my team, it’s no big deal.”

Sergio still feels pretty shit for skipping out on payment though, and grasps around in his mind for something. “Maybe, I could…hook you up with some tickets? For a match.”

“You can do that?”

“Sure.” Sergio says, _really_ hoping that he can do that. He has no idea how far his privileges in the club extend. “Give me your phone number and I’ll…sort something out.”

He writes another set of details down on his leg, handing the pen back to the driver.

“You know, you’re a lot more decent than everybody says you are.”

Sergio is halfway out of the door, but he pauses when the driver speaks those words. “What d’you mean?” He asks.

The driver just shakes his head with a shrug and starts the car up again. Sergio takes that as his cue to leave and exits the car, staring up at the apartments that line the pavement in front of him. He lifts up his trouser leg to read the address again and then locates the buzzer for Apartment 4A along the front door. He’s consoled to see the name ‘ _F. Torres’_ scrawled next to it.

Sergio presses it once, twice, three times but there is no answer.

Out of sheer, dumb luck, a middle-aged woman pops her head out of the lowest level window and spots him struggling with the buzzer. “Oh, those haven’t worked in months.” She calls to him. “The council keep promising to ‘send a guy round’, but they never do,” She rolls her eyes. “I’ll let you in.”

He gives a grateful nod, sliding through the door once it’s opened for him and racing up the stairs; impressed that he isn’t even out of breath once he reaches the fifth level. _Work perks,_ he thinks to himself with a smile and then starts to pound on the door to Apartment 4A as incessantly as he pressed the buzzer.

“Alright, alright, I’m coming.” A muffled voice drifts through the door and Sergio stops knocking as he hears footsteps approach and the door is pulled open. “Yes-?”

And if Fernando continues speaking, Sergio doesn’t hear it because the surge of relief he feels at the sight of his familiar – albeit, older and sharper – best friend pulls him under like a tidal wave and he can’t comprehend anything else. It’s crazy, because in his mind, it’s only been a few hours since he last saw Fernando – but it’s like every moment between waking up and this one has been a lonely clamber up a mountain and he’s finally found something like home at the top. So overwhelmed, Sergio can only drag Fernando in for a hug and crush his face against his shoulder.

“Jesus, Fernando; I’m glad to see you.” He breathes against Fernando’s t-shirt, too distracted by his own emotions to notice or care that Fernando is stiff and uncomfortable in his arms. “I’ve had the…. _weirdest_ day and – wait, you do recognise me, right?” He pulls away but keeps two hands firm on Fernando’s arms. “I mean, I know that I look…. _super_ different and you….Jesus, you’ve got brown hair.” He suddenly realises that there’s no trace of Fernando’s signature, bleached blonde; just ordinary brown. “Never mind, that’s not important. But you know who I am, don’t you, you know it’s-”

“Sergio. Yeah.” Fernando tactfully removes himself from Sergio’s grip, rubbing his arm. “I drive past a poster of you whenever I go to work.”

“Oh, right. Of course.” Sergio laughs, but it isn’t reciprocated by Fernando and he stops. “Are you going to let me in?” He tries to joke and nudges Fernando with his foot.

It makes Sergio nervous that Fernando looks like he’s trying to wake up from a bad dream, but he steps aside to allow Sergio in.

Fernando’s apartment is exactly how Sergio would’ve imagined it; it’s small but all the space is used well, as if it wouldn’t make sense to be any bigger because there was nothing else that needed to be in it; the furniture was soft and worn, almost certainly second-hand and old magazines and books littered the tables and shelves and even parts of the floor; it wasn’t like the spread of a magazine where all the furniture matched perfectly, but it seemed to go together even so.

“Nice apartment.” Sergio quirks a smile at Fernando, far beyond caring whether he is messing up his timeline at this point. It didn’t matter if he’d been to this apartment hundreds of times before, he was telling Fernando the truth – or, what he believed to be the truth anyway. “Is that _Goenkale?”_ Sergio points to the television.

“Uh, yeah.” Fernando quickly turns the television off. “So, Sergio…” He puts the remote back down on the table carefully and straightens up. “What are you doing here?”

Sergio takes a deep breath and tries to stop everything that’s happened to him coming out of his mouth in one, long incomprehensible jumble. He composes himself, thinking through the words before he speaks them. “Right. So, I was seventeen yesterday. And, I woke up this morning and I’m in this strange bed in this strange apartment and its ten years in the future. But I don’t remember anything, I don’t remember my life for the past ten years! It’s like I’ve got amnesia-”

“You have amnesia?”

“No, _no._ It’s _like_ I have amnesia, I can’t remember a single thing. I was seventeen just yesterday, I know I was!”

Fernando stands there – his face masked in to an expression of both confusion and suspicion – before he says; “Have you been drinking? Or…taking something?”

Sergio almost wants to scream. “I know I sound crazy, but I need your help! Come on, Fer, you trust me? I’m not making this up, I need you to help me figure out what’s happened.”

There’s a helpless shrug from Fernando. “What can _I_ do?”

“Help me remember the past ten years!” Sergio pleads.

“Don’t you have friends who can help you with this? Can I call someone for you?”

Fernando’s words stop him short. “But… _you’re_ my best friend?” And Sergio is certain of this fact, absolutely certain of it, but something about this whole situation makes it come out as a question.

When Fernando speaks, he does so slowly, as if he’s trying to talk to a child. “No. I’m not.”

It feels like the floor underneath him has suddenly cracked open and he’s gone hurtling through the gap but no, he’s still stood here, facing Fernando who’s looking increasingly concerned for his wellbeing. “What?” He chokes out.

“We haven’t spoken in _years,_ Sergio.” Fernando says, his voice still careful. “We’re not friends anymore.”

Sergio’s knees give out and he collapses on the sofa behind him, grabbing the nearest cushion and crushing it to his stomach. His insides are twisting around, pulling and tugging on nerves all around his body and he starts to breathe heavily, doubling-over the cushion. “Oh my god.”

From somewhere above him, he can hear Fernando talking. “Hey, it’s alright. It’s fine. D’you want…I don’t know, a drink? Something strong?”

Sergio nods in agreement. “Something strong.”

“Alright, no problem, coming right up.”

He hears Fernando walk out of the room on quick feet and continues to hyperventilate against the scuffed-up cushion. It smells soft and well-loved and like Fernando – or maybe Sergio’s brain is just bullshitting him because he’s pretty certain half of those things can’t be _smelled._ He finds some shallow comfort in it even so.

He hadn’t stopped – not for one second – and considered the possibility that Fernando might not be in his life anymore. Fernando was a rock, a solid, a certainty in his life; there was no Sergio without Fernando, that’s just how it was. He wants Fernando to be lying, to be playing some stupid – and _very_ unfunny – prank on him and to skip back in to the room, laughing and squashing up next to Sergio on the sofa. Sergio wouldn’t even care if Fernando teased him about it mercilessly for the rest of his life, at least it’d be better than this alternative.

But Fernando doesn’t skip back in to the room with a smile on his face, he’s impassive and unreadable as he wordlessly hands Sergio a tumbler glass. Sergio notices how pale the skin on his hand is as he takes it gratefully.

“What is it?” He asks.

“Something strong.” Fernando assures him.

Sergio takes his word for it and gulps it down, repressing a shudder at the taste. _Definitely strong._ The sound of the tumbler glass clinking against wood as Sergio places it down on the table in front of him is sharp through his and Fernando’s silence, and it makes Sergio wince. He wraps his arms back around the cushion.

“You’re in a bad shape, Sergio; I think I should call someone. A friend, or…I don’t know, your girlfriend?”

“I have a girlfriend?” Sergio asks. Then he shakes his head, and says; “You know that I have a girlfriend? I thought we weren’t friends.”

“I read a lot of articles.” At Sergio’s quizzical look, Fernando adds; “Magazine publishing.”

Sergio smiles at him. “You’re a publisher?”

“No.” Fernando says, with a small shrug. “I’m just a Temp; which roughly translates in to bringing coffee and taking messages.” The smallest hint of a smile appears on Fernando’s face, for the first time. It eases something in Sergio’s chest. “Should I call your girlfriend then?”

Sergio rubs his face against the edge of the cushion, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of his stubble. “I don’t know.” It’s such a childish response – _you are a child,_ his mind chides him.

“What can I do then?”

Sergio sighs and finally releases the cushion from its prison, setting it back down carefully on the sofa. He picks out a laptop that’s set on top of a pile of paperbacks and blows a stream of air out of his mouth. “Well, I guess…” He indicates the laptop. “You could pass me that computer?”

*

Sergio spends the next two hours searching, learning and then memorising his life for the past ten years.

All the excitement and amazement at finding out who he was had dissolved quickly after the conversation with Fernando, but it began to thrum inside him again as he read up on his own, glorious history.

He was talent-scouted at eighteen, much older than most footballers, but his natural skill and physicality had made him stand out; Real Madrid sent him out on loan for a couple of years to lower league teams but when he scored a free-kick against his parent club to knock Real out of the Copa Del Rey, they quickly ushered him back to _Los Blancos;_ his rise to fame with Real Madrid was unprecedented and unstoppable as he won back-to-back La Liga titles in his first two seasons, followed by an European Cup with the Spanish National Team.

He became an international icon, sponsoring the biggest sports brands in the world and releasing his own underwear collection; he’s won another three La Liga titles, bring his total to five, two Copa Del Rey’s and a World Cup, plus an assortment of personal awards and trophies; the only accolade not on his résumé is a Champions League and _Los Blancos_ have been knocked out of three consecutive semi-finals.

He’s dated several woman but has been in a relationship with Pilar Rubio for a couple of years now and he recognises the woman on his arm in the photos as the same woman occupying his shower earlier in the morning; he lives in one of the most affluent areas in Madrid and has three cars and a summer home in Marbella; his life revolves around A-List parties, red-carpet events and being given free tickets to the most prestigious sporting events around the world.

In short, he’s an international superstar.

He shouts out random things to Fernando every now and then, when he can’t contain his excitement to himself.

“Have you seen this photoshoot I did? I look incredible!”

“Come and look at this fan website someone’s made about me, it’s amazing!”

“Jesus, I dated _Miss Spain_ 2006!”

Fernando politely hums at appropriate moments, flicking through one of his magazines absentmindedly; he’d settled down to read once realising that Sergio had no real intention of leaving his apartment. Sergio wasn’t really sure if he was overstepping his boundaries or impinging on Fernando’s personal space – they’d never _had_ boundaries before, showing up at each other’s homes unannounced, sprawling across each other’s beds, helping themselves to each other’s food. _This_ was what felt normal, not awkward and uncomfortable loitering.

Sergio also takes the time to learn who all his teammates are, matching up names to faces and names to nationalities. He tries to get Fernando to test him.

“I don’t watch football.” Is Fernando’s only response.

Sergio sighs and gently presses the laptop shut, leaning back against the sofa with what he suspects is a dopey smile across his face. “I can’t believe it,” He whispers. “I got everything I ever wanted.”

“Yeah; you got it all, Sergio.” Fernando says, throwing his magazine back down on the table.

Sergio doesn’t have a chance to analyse the odd tone in Fernando’s voice, when his phone begins to ring and his back-pocket begins to vibrate.

The caller ID tells him it’s Cris. Sergio runs through what he remembers in his head; _Cristiano Ronaldo, Portuguese, expensive, also has an underwear collection._ “Hello?”

“Hey, Sergio. You missed out big time this afternoon; Irina brought round twins. _Twins._ ”

“Irina is your girlfriend.” Sergio states dumbly.

Cris snorts down the line. “Only some of the time.” He says, then continues; “Anyway, we ordered for the Cadillac to be sent round to Marcelo’s because we thought you’d be here this evening, but it’s no big deal; we can swing by and pick you up?”

“The Cadillac?”

“For the auction function, Sergio.” He hears Cris laugh. “Jesus, I thought Iker was joking about you being hungover earlier.”

Sergio thinks about Cadillacs and chauffeurs; tuxedos and smart, Italian shoes; red-carpets and expensive functions. He smiles. “Yeah, that…that sounds good.”

“Pilar is your plus-one?”

“Probably.” Sergio mulls it over, then remembers. “No, she can’t make tonight. A shoot or…something.”

They bid their farewells and Sergio stuffs the mobile away, standing up from the sofa. He stretches. Then he leaps for joy. “I’m going to a party!” He shouts.

Fernando stands up too, eyeing him carefully. “So, you’re alright now?” He asks. “You’ve got everything…figured out?”

“Alright? _Alright?”_ He starts to dance around Fernando as he laughs. “This is amazing! I’m going to a party, with tuxedos, and Cadillacs!” He tries to make a grab for Fernando’s hand to dance with him, but it’s removed out of his reach and Fernando walks over to the door, holding it open.

“Well, have a nice time.” He says.

Sergio goes over to the door, before turning around and saying; “Hey, why don’t you come?” He suggests.

Fernando quirks an eyebrow, and Sergio continues; “No, I have a spare plus-one! Come on, Fernando, it’ll be so cool! Remember when we dressed up as spies and went to fake, espionages parties and used lemonade as champagne? It’ll be like that, just without all the unexplained and coincidental murders. Please, please?”

“I have a lot to be getting on with.” Fernando dismisses carefully. “You can…hunt down supervillains without me.”

“Well, if you change your mind…” Sergio trails off with a shrug. “I’ll see you soon?”

It’s a question. Fernando just makes a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat, and closes the door. Sergio doesn’t know whether to be encouraged or disappointed at that response, so he decides to be neither. He’s just going to think about tonight.

When he leaves, he doesn’t walk down the stairs – he skips.


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (...how has it been 8 months...!?)
> 
> A belated Valentines treat for y'all. 
> 
> This chapter is largely filler for important plot points and so forth, so apologies on that front. Hope you enjoy anyway!

Seventeen-year old Sergio Ramos didn’t go to parties; Friday and Saturday nights were spent slouching around in his living room with Fernando, ordering take-away and playing FIFA. Until Sergio got bored of getting his arse kicked, and then they’d spend the rest of the night watching films or listening to music, sometimes sitting out in his garden and drinking when it was warm. Neither of them were popular enough to be invited to the numerous house parties that went on around the neighbourhood.

In fact, the only parties that Sergio had ever been to were his uncle’s wedding, and a couple of school discos. He still has repressed memories of his mother gelling his hair in to spikes and dressing him in a glittered t-shirt, sending him off to the school dance to be mercilessly teased.

Well - all that is going to change tonight. Not only is he attending the _Real Madrid Charity Auction_ – revealed as one of the most highly anticipated events in Madrid during his research – but Sergio Ramos is going to make sure he looks absolutely fucking incredible whilst doing it.

It starts with an empty apartment; which he’s pretty glad about, because he doesn’t want to have to explain his whole _‘this is like a rite of passage thing for me, a well-dressed, A-list rite of passage’_ to his girlfriend. He flicks through his assortment of CD’s, picking out some cheaply inspirational music to blast out through his apartment and crosses his fingers that he has a good relationship with his neighbours.

He runs himself a bath and decides that, _hey,_ there’s nothing wrong with being a little seventeen-ish still and fills it to the brim with bubbles. He soaks for almost half an hour, using the time to continue memorising his life and his teammates; he’d put together flashcards while the bath had been running and tests himself on names and dates and places, not stopping until he’s sure he’s got it and the ink has become so smudged that it’s unreadable.

He lounges around the apartment in a bathrobe while he waits for his hair to dry, passing as many mirrors as he possibly can because _yes, he still looks amazing._

And if he thought his trophy cabinet was stuffed to the brim, it's nothing compared to his wardrobe; shelves and shelves of smart suits, pressed shirts and expensive jeans are stacked like books in a library. An entire wall is dedicated to his shoes alone.

It takes over an hour for him to go through all his clothes and settle on a relatively simple blue suit and black tie, but all the effort feels worth it when Sergio looks in the mirror and for the first time in his life, he likes - no, _loves_ \- what he sees.

A car horn drags him from his temporary self-obsessing and he presses his face and hands against his window - like a child gazing in to a sweet shop - to see the promised Cadillac waiting outside for him.

The entire journey is a blur; of loud music, of champagne, of laughter as he, Cris and Irina, and Marcelo are whisked through the streets of Madrid. The alcohol helps to settle Sergio's nerves but he still feels the thrum of anxiety when the Cadillac pulls up to the event.

Cris and Irina exit the car first and Sergio hears the chatter of the crowds turn to roars and screams of delight. His heart is thumping so hard against his shirt that he’s sure it’s going to rip the fabric. Marcelo follows, and then it’s Sergio’s turn.

He composes himself on the seat – _come on, come on, come on_ – until the chauffeur has to clear his throat and Sergio has no option but to step out too.

And his whole world explodes; his whole world _is_ an explosion – of lights and colours and noises, and Sergio’s dragged up in the whirlwind the second his foot touches the red carpet.

A whirlwind where the ropes lining the carpet are straining against the weight of fans desperate for a photo or an autograph, where shirts with his name on are being waved around and held aloft like a lighter at a rock concert, where underneath the sound of cheers and screams and chanting, there’s the undeniable _click, click, click_ of the paparazzi snapping away. There’s a banner streaming down from the roof of the building ahead and his full-kitted figure is emblazoned across it. He thinks half of Madrid could probably see it.

“Sergio! Sergio! Sergio! Sergio!”

There are too many fans shouting his name, their faces blurring in and out of focus with the lighting and the camera flashes and he has no idea what to do, so he figures that he might as well just start at the beginning.

He walks to the first fan he sees, scribbles an autograph, takes a photo and moves on to the next one as they burst in to tears, still sobbing out his name. He goes along the entire carpet, swapping from side to side in a zig-zag motion and seemingly confusing the hell out of both security and Marcelo and Cris, who just stand there, watching him with stunned expressions. He signs so many autographs that his wrist aches and takes so many photographs that his vision has gone white at the corners but these people adore him and he adores them for adoring him and, well – he doesn’t think he’s ever been adored before.

When he finally reaches the end of the carpet, Marcelo and Cris are still standing there. He beams at them, and says; “That was fun!”

They exchange a glance. Marcelo asks; “What are you doing?”

“Signing autographs.” Sergio glances down at the pen in his hand. “Oh, is my signature different? Yeah, see, I was trying out something new and-”

“But, you never sign autographs?” It’s Cris.

Sergio stares at him – thinking, _what kind of a celebrity would I be if I didn’t sign autographs?_ – and then realises that neither Cris nor Marcelo signed any autographs, or took any pictures. “Shit, was I not supposed to?”

There’s another exchange between Cris and Marcelo. Sergio wishes he could read the look in their eyes.

Eventually, Cris speaks. “No. It’s just…you hate signing autographs. And taking pictures. And doing anything that involves fans, in general.”

This time, when Sergio looks down at the pen, he frowns. “I do?”

“Yeah; I thought you found them all irritating and insipid?”

Marcelo snorts with laughter and slaps Cris on the shoulder. “Yeah, and when he imitates them in the dressing room. _Oh, Sergio, Sergio! I’d die for you, Sergio, please! Oh, just marry me!”_ They both begin to cackle.

Sergio stands and watches them, the collar of his shirt feeling a little tighter than it had done a few moments ago. He tries to rationalise himself in his head; _alright – so, maybe he gets a little fed up of the attention every now and then. Who wouldn’t?_ He looks behind him and back at the crowds and decides that, actually, he can’t imagine ever getting fed up of this.

“Well, I changed my mind." He says to Cris and Marcelo, as they make their way in to the building. “Besides, I think it’s cool; they respect and appreciate us for what we do, you know?”

Marcelo chuckles – it’s colder than a chuckle should be.

Cris says; “I guess you’re wearing your rose-tinted glasses today, huh?” He smiles, and shakes his head. “I’ve never heard you say things like this before.”

Sergio wants to keep prodding – he wants to ask, _what kind of things do I usually say, then_ and, _what kind of a person am I,_ because the more he hears, the more concerned he becomes – but an usher descends on them, matching their names next to a guest-list. When he’s asked about his plus-one, Sergio shrugs and then, without thinking, pulls the clipboard out of the usher’s hands and scrawls down Fernando’s name; just in case.

A set of double-doors are held open for them and they’re led in to an impressive hall; Sergio lets out a low whistle at the high-rise ceiling, the chandelier and the sharp-suited people, so immaculate that they might as well be props in the room themselves.

He turns to Marcelo as Cris and Irina are escorted off in to the crowds; he takes a drink from a waiter, half-expecting to be asked for proof of age, and asks; “So…this auction. What’s the charity, again?”

Marcelo eyes him. “Charity?”

“Yeah,” He gestures vaguely with his free hand. “I mean, it was something to do with homeless, uh…children, right? Or, terminal illnesses?”

Marcelo takes a small sip of his own drink, still staring at him.

“Abandoned puppies?”

That makes him crack a smile, and when he shakes his head, his hair shifts and shimmers. “Sergio, you know 90% of the proceeds go to us. Who cares which charity the rest goes to?”

His comment floors Sergio, and the glass in between his fingers threatens to slip out and smash at his feet. _“What?”_

“What d’you mean, _what?_ It was your idea.”

Sergio should have fallen through several floors and be writhing in the basement by now. _“What!?”_

 _“Yes.”_ Marcelo says. “Jesus, Sergio,” He plucks the drink out of Sergio’s hand. “I think you could do with a night sans-alcohol. It’s messing with your head.”

He’s been rendered almost speechless, but manages to splutter out; “But, doesn’t everybody know?”

“Not unless you’ve been blabbing it around.”

It’s a joke, but Sergio still feels sick. “But-”

The crackling static from a microphone cuts him and off and he sees as the President, Florentino Pérez, take the stage and begin to address the guests. Marcelo’s attention has been diverted and Sergio has no option but to stand, and listen, and fret.

*

The auction turns out to be really, really… _boring._

Sergio isn’t sure what he expected – but an exciting, extravagant affair was definitely high on the list. The speeches drone on for almost two hours and his _Alexander McQueen_ shoes – which _looked_ really nice and expensive – are beginning to pinch his toes. He rocks back and forth on his heels throughout the different speakers, snatching drinks from the passing waiters whenever Marcelo isn’t looking. By the time the speeches have finished, his head is feeling light and warm.

The music starts up again but it’s slow and dull, and Sergio stifles a yawn. A small glance around reveals that he isn’t the only one getting restless. “This is meant to be a party, right?”

“I suppose so.” Marcelo says.

“Well, shouldn’t it be…livelier?” He gestures around at the ballroom. “People are falling asleep!”

Marcelo gives a cursory scan of the room. “If they’re still donating, I doubt it matters too much.”

“But...we have a reputation to uphold, an image to project, we’re... _we’re the most marketable team in the world_ -”

“Quoting me, I see?”

Sergio and Marcelo turn around to see the silver-haired coach approach them, dressed up in a slick, grey suit. _Mourinho,_ Sergio recalls. Mourinho rests an arm around Sergio’s shoulders and gives his cheek a pat. “They do say that imitation is the highest form of flattery.” He ushers Marcelo and Sergio to lean in closer with a curl of his fingers. “Toni reckons he’s seen a couple of culés prowling around. They might be trying to pull the same stunt they did in-”

“Culés?” Sergio repeats.

Mourinho and Marcelo both spare him a glance, before Mourinho continues. “It seems your assertion that Mesut was the snake was wrong, Sergio.”

“It was?” Even to his own ears, Sergio realises he sounds dumb.

“Selling him might have been a mistake.” Mourinho blows a small stream of air out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ll have to keep searching. And keep your eyes out for any culés.” He finishes with another pat to Sergio’s cheek and strolls back off through the crowds, his suit blending seamlessly with his hair.

Sergio wants to start cross-questioning Marcelo immediately on what a ‘culé’ is and what they were meant to be searching for; it turns out not to be necessary as Marcelo turns to him and speaks in a hushed voice; “Shit – seems Barcelona still has a man on the inside.”

“What d’you think they’ll be looking for?” Sergio asks in as casual a voice as possible.

“Anything to bring the club to its knees; the inside man probably let them in on the charity scheme and they’ll be trying to track down evidence to prove it. Imagine if they pull something like the tax scandal last year? We were lucky that Perez forked out cash to the media or we’d be specks of dirt on the pavement.”

“Who d’you think the inside man is?”

Marcelo gulps down the last of his champagne, eyes shifting from left to right as he scanned the crowds. “I don’t know. You were adamant that it was Mesut; poor guy’s banished to England now.” There’s a pause as he picks out a particular figure. “You know, I always thought Karim was shifty looking...” He trails off his he begins tracking Karim’s movements and Sergio takes the brief opportunity to run through all the new information he’s gathered in his head.

 _So – you don’t like signing autographs._ Apparently _. And there’s some underground, money-laundering scheme going on within the club. And it was your idea._ Apparently. _And there’s someone working undercover for Barcelona to bring the club down from the inside. And you wrongly accused someone._ Apparently. _And there was some tax scandal last year-”_

“Sergio?”

The sound of his name drags him from the slightly disheartening list he’s running through, and he glances up to see a wonderfully familiar face stood in front him.

Fernando sticks out like a sore thumb in the elegant setting of the ballroom; his black jeans are scuffed at the knees and the crumpling of his shirt sleeves betrays the fact that it hasn’t been ironed. His hands are shoved awkwardly and nervously in his pockets and Sergio can tell from the shape that they’re balled in to fists.

But he doesn’t take much notice of Fernando’s slightly dishevelled appearance and instead bounds over to him with a beam plastered across his face, wrapping him up in a tight hug. Similar to when he materialised on Fernando’s doorstep earlier in the day, Fernando is stiff in his arms but Sergio glosses over it. _I’ll wear him down,_ he thinks. “You came?” It comes out as a question.

“Yeah.” He can feel Fernando’s voice vibrate in his chest. “I guess I did.” He sounds as confused as Sergio; almost as if he’d wandered in by accident and was now wondering what the hell he was doing here.

Sergio pulls away and sees Fernando visibly relax. “Marcelo, this is Fernando.” He introduces.

Marcelo is visibly unimpressed with Fernando’s appearance and excuses himself, chuckling lightly as he walks away. Sergio notices Fernando watch him leave with a mask of neutrality but there’s a small flicker in his eyes. Sergio brushes over the situation, and asks; “What happened to the things you needed to be getting on with?”

Fernando’s hands seek out his pockets again, and he shrugs. “I got on with them.” There’s a beat of silence and then he opens his mouth to say something else, but Sergio cuts him off.

“Wait, wait.” He takes a few steps back and then gestures widely with his hands. “How do I look?”

Fernando gives him a quick one-over – in all his shiny shoes, shiny suit, shiny hair glory - before quirking an eyebrow slightly and saying; “Like a walking endorsement for Gucci.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Sergio quips back but the smile is still stretched across his face and there’s something desperately comforting about having someone he knows so well in an environment he knows so little. _Someone he used to know,_ his mind wheedles back but Sergio lets the thought float away with the soft music.

“So...how’s the party?” Fernando asks.

“Pretty dull.” Sergio admits, glancing over towards the sound system. He thinks back to the naff, school discos of his childhood that had haunted him when he was preparing for the charity auction, and an idea creeps in to his head. He turns back to Fernando with a smile. “Shall I go and request a song?”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of a party...” Fernando begins, but Sergio is already off through the crowds, weaving in and out of players and coaches and generous donors. He doesn’t stop until he’s next to the speakers and once soft music is now pounding against his ears. There’s a man lounging on a chair and a laptop by his feet; Sergio’s surprised at the simplicity of it, half expecting an orchestra.

He leans in to be heard over the music. “Can I request a song?”

The man doesn’t look up. “This is a pre-set playlist.”

“Just one song?”

The man peers up with a sigh – perhaps to tell Sergio exactly where he can shove his _one song_ – but realisation dawns on his face and he straightens up in his chair, fishing the laptop from the floor. “Oh, Ramos, of course. Which song?”

Sergio gives the name and then steps back towards the masses as the opening notes of Billy Joel’s _‘Piano Man’_ starts trickling through the speakers. This was the song that Sergio would force Fernando to listen to on repeat for months on end, shushing him whenever Fernando threatened to talk over the music and ordering him out of his room whenever he tried to make the record jump. He’d even convince Fernando to act out the different characters with him; before long, they’d established a small choreographed routine to the song.

As the lyrics begin, Sergio pushes his way to the centre of the ballroom and maps out a small square of space. People begin to take notice and stand back to watch with curious eyes. He glances around and spies Irina standing a few feet away with Cris – matching smirks adorn their faces as they watch him. Swallowing down any frayed nerves, Sergio walks over and grabs Irina’s hand, pulling her in to the centre of the ballroom with him.

He’d have never tried this yesterday, as a seventeen year old. But _this_ Sergio – _this_ Sergio was pretty sure he could do anything.

“Sergio, what are-?” Irina begins to protest, but then starts to laugh as Sergio puts a hand around her waist and starts to waltz them around the floor.

And it becomes obvious from the beginning that being a good footballer doesn’t make you a good dancer but Irina is a good sport and takes the reins, whisking them both around in fluid movements. There are a few sniggers and a comment or two that rise above the music and Sergio falters for a split second; until he sees Cris take the hand of a woman stood watching them and takes her in to the middle, beginning to dance with her too.

And then suddenly there’s three, then four, then five and then Sergio loses count, watching as the scene around him dissolves in a flurry of movements and laughter. Everyone dips and rises along with the music and Sergio sees Mourinho stood, watching the turn of events with a wry smile. He catches his eye – gives Sergio a thumbs up.

“You’ve been very different lately.” Irina comments as they continue to twirl in and around the mass of dancing couples. Sergio isn’t sure how to respond but he doesn’t need to, as Irina smiles and adds; “I like it.”

Joel’s voice is now intermingled with the sound of cheers as more and more people join the dance and Sergio realises that he – yes, _he_ – has just single-handedly changed the entire nature of the event, had possibly just saved the auction from being a complete dud. It makes him feel like a king.

Until he spies Fernando stood in almost the exact position that Sergio had left him; hands still awkwardly bundled up and shoulders set. Their eyes meet across the floor and Sergio knows, just _knows,_ that Fernando is acutely aware of what he is about to do – he starts backing up as Sergio hands Irina over to Cris when he waltzes past, and strides towards the small square of floor that Fernando seemed to have permanently occupied.

“No, no, no, no, no, _no!”_

Fernando’s protests are ignored as Sergio takes both his wrists and drags him in to the melee. He struggles and a gurgle of laughter bubbles up inside Sergio as he realises that this is the first he’s ever been stronger than Fernando. Gone were the days when Fernando could shove him off the best chair in front of the television and could muscle his way in front of Sergio in the queue, or take the best slices of pizza straight out of Sergio’s hands.

“Come on,” Sergio coaxes when Fernando plants his heels in to the ground to prevent the defender from twirling him. “It’s the bit about the real estate novelist – that was always your character, remember?” And it feels strange to ask Fernando to _remember_ when this is a memory from less than five years ago in Sergio’s mind; yet thirteen, fourteen, fifteen in Fernando’s.

He huffs at Fernando’s stubborn insistence and starts forcibly pulling him around the room in some semblance of a dance, directing Fernando’s limbs like a puppet-master. He decides to try and re-enact their routine on his own, hoping to entice _some_ reaction from Fernando, _anything_ to prove that Sergio isn’t too late, that he can fix whatever went wrong in the ten years past.

And he does, right at the end; as the final chords of the song play and Sergio mimes tipping an imaginary pianist, he sees Fernando smile; it’s not the Fernando-esque smile that Sergio recognises but it was the _something_ that he’d been waiting for.

He thinks his soul splits open with sunshine at the sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In no way suggesting that Real Madrid have some dodgy, underground donation scheme going on or that the players are total arsewipes...just abusing artistic license to the max!
> 
> A/N: Seriously recommend listening to Billy Joel's 'Piano Man' if acoustic/piano/folk/rock is your thing. It's good shit.  
> >> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxEPV4kolz0 <


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